Chapter 13: Thirteen - The Idea of You

Lucy took her time in the bathroom, spending an age cleaning and flossing her teeth, removing her make-up, cleansing and toning her skin, and even giving the toilet a good bleaching. She did anything she could to delay having the next conversation with her husband. She knew that for them, when it came to Camille, it was a bit like being friendly supporters of two neighbouring teams that never played each other, making amicability and gentle ribbing possible. But boy oh boy – when they did eventually meet on the field, she knew they could expect a good fight.

The birthday tea had been nice, the fancy cake a great success, and Dex very good company. The second bottle of champagne that she and Jonah had shared before the kids left the house for the late-night cinema also helped their Saturday pass in a slight haze of fuzzy happiness. But the effect of the alcohol had long since dulled. It was now bedtime, and they were going to be alone, free for the first time to discuss Camille’s announcement. Lucy dotted moisturiser onto her face and neck before rubbing it in. Unable to think of another thing to do short of polishing the tiles, she pulled the light cord and made her way into the bedroom. Jonah was already in bed, sitting up and reading the headlines on his tablet.

‘I think everyone’s had a good time today.’ She smiled, tucking the lightweight duvet over her legs.

‘You did her proud, you really did. What do we make of young Dex?’ He swiped the screen and put the tablet face down on his bedside table.

‘I thought he was lovely. Not what I was expecting at all.’ She whispered this confession as she massaged hand cream into her cuticles, even though they were alone. Whispering made the gossip seem more palatable.

‘In what way?’

‘I suppose if I tried to picture a seventeen-year-old, I thought he’d be like a boy, but he’s clearly manly, grown-up. And very mature.’ She trod with caution.

‘Yes. I didn’t know whether to be happy that she was in safe hands – I’m sure he can look after her should they ever run into trouble – or devastated because she’s still my little girl.’ He yawned.

‘I like him. I do,’ she confessed, ‘and Camille seemed very happy. I liked the way she was around him – relaxed – and it’s good for her to feel like that. When it’s reciprocated it can make you feel like a million dollars.’

‘Well, I hope you feel like a million dollars, because I adore you.’ He slipped down on the mattress and lay with his head on her stomach. ‘How’s your tum?’ He placed his hand on her pyjama top, which covered her stomach.

She stroked his dark, curly hair. ‘It’s fine.’ Running her hand over his naked shoulders, peppered with the freckles of past tans, she considered how best to launch the topic that swirled in her mind, kicking up a dust storm that made it hard to see anything else clearly. Despite her reticence to discuss the issue, she knew that it would hover until she did, making sleep impossible. ‘So what do you think about Camille staying here on a more permanent basis?’ She tried to keep her tone casual, hoping it belied the frenzy of anxiety she felt.

‘I’m really surprised!’ He snorted. ‘She hadn’t mentioned anything to me, but I don’t think she’s serious. I wouldn’t have thought she’d choose this inner-city life over a spacious farmhouse with a pool in France, where she’s not only got all that space and sunshine but her mates and her mum too. It’s all she’s ever known.’

Lucy nodded, thinking for the first time that a pool, a farmhouse and the pretty French countryside were no match for the buzz of inner-city London for a seventeen-year-old girl with a love of fashion and music – especially an inner-city London with the lovely Dex residing in it.

‘I’m not so sure, Jonah. They say the grass is always greener on the other side, and I think she might want to stay because she wants to be with Dex.’

‘No!’ He laughed, shifting until his head rested on his hand above his elbow. ‘Surely not? That’s just a little holiday fling. I mean, I don’t dislike the boy, he clearly has had to carve his own path and that’s admirable, but I don’t think he’s for Camille.’

‘Ah, but that’s just it. You don’t get to choose who’s for Camille. She does,’ she reminded him.

‘I can see your future! I can see it, as surely as if I had a crystal ball! You are a child! A child!’

Lucy shook her head to rid it of the words that had sprung unbidden to the front of her mind.

‘I know that.’ He chuckled. ‘But I can tell you it’s not DJ Dex or whatever his name is.’

‘Jonah, I am not kidding. Did you see the way she looked at him? I can tell you, this is more than a fling,’ she reasoned. ‘They had chemistry and seemed very at ease with each other.’

She pictured herself at a similar age, draped over the boy she had loved, desperate to feel his skin against her, intoxicated by his scent.

He sat up and scooted back to his side of the bed and the support of the padded headboard. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really!’ She tutted, a little irritated that he was so oblivious.

‘Well, I guess if she wants to stay and it’s a course worth doing . . .’

Jonah let his words linger, and Lucy felt a swell of something close to panic in her chest. He was clearly not opposed to the idea of having Camille in their home as a permanent fixture – far from it.

‘I know she’s not terribly academic. I don’t think she’s that interested in higher education, not really. Geneviève and I have had words about it before. Cam scrapes by on her grades, and so maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. We’d have to discuss it with her mum, of course, the logistics and so forth.’ He shrugged and sank down on to the pillows, clearly readying for sleep, as if the decision were pre-approved, straightforward, and merited little more than a stamp of approval and the buying of an extra pint of milk.

‘I think we should talk about it a bit more,’ she urged.

‘We can, but not now, Lucy.’ He gave a loud yawn, reaching out a flailing hand to pat her. ‘I’m too tired.’

Lucy flicked off the bedside lamp and lay in the dark with her knuckles joined across her stomach. Her eyes lingered on the outline of the wicker hamper on top of the wardrobe, and her spirits sank. She was of the belief that having Camille as a permanent fixture under their roof would leave little room for her to pursue her dream of becoming a mum. It was almost as if one child would be enough, no matter that she had arrived in her life fully formed, as a teen. Lucy cursed the tears that gathered and trickled down her face. As Jonah snored, she had the uneasy feeling that things were changing . . . and she wasn’t sure they were changing for the better.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, events moved at pace, leaving Lucy feeling like she was being swept along by the current.

‘I’ve got my interview today,’ Camille reminded them, as she applied mascara at the kitchen table, holding the small magnified mirror in her palm.

‘You’ll do great.’ Jonah nodded, as he gulped his coffee and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Time has beaten me this morning. See you both later. Lucy, have a good day, and Cam, let me know how it goes.’ He blew kisses from his palm and swept from the room.

Lucy shook her head. ‘This house is complete chaos every morning. It drives me nuts! Don’t get me wrong, I love our life – I love being in this house with Jonah – but I don’t understand how there’s only the two of us and yet nearly every morning ends in this supreme rush to get out of the door. It mystifies me!’ she babbled, as she wiped down the crumb-laden surface with a cloth.

‘Three of us.’ Camille held her mascara wand still and stared at her through thickened lashes.

‘Yes, of course, three of us!’ She tried to laugh off her faux pas, silently cursing herself for having let her guard down and made this Freudian slip.

Camille’s expression changed as she stood up from the table. Lucy couldn’t tell if it was one of hurt or resentment. ‘I get it, Lucy. You love your life, just the two of you. Well, don’t worry. If I do get my college place I’m sure there will be somewhere I can go and stay. Dex knows a lot of people,’ she huffed.

‘What? No! That’s not what I’m saying at all!’ she called after Camille, who raced out of the room and up the stairs.

* * *

As the days marched on, Lucy found it a struggle simply to stay afloat and breathe, let alone find the voice to speak up. The atmosphere between her and Camille returned to its pre-birthday awkwardness, revealing the short snap of closeness to be a false dawn, and this she found truly disheartening.

It was hard for her, having to bob on the changing tide of Camille’s fancy. Trying to please her, Lucy went out of her way, offering to drive her to work when summer showers threatened, buying her favourite foods, and circling snippets in magazines of any fashion item or article that she thought might be of interest before leaving them propped open on her bedside table. Camille never mentioned them or thanked her for them, so Lucy stopped doing it.

The girl’s alienation of her was subtle. It might take the form of something as small as only clearing her and her dad’s plates from the table, leaving Lucy to take her own and head in Camille’s wake towards the dishwasher, while Jonah praised the girl for helping out. Some acts were bigger, more obvious and therefore more hurtful, like discussing fond memories of trips and events that were pre-Lucy, meaning she could only smile and gawp like an outsider, hoping for scattered crumbs of inclusion. Camille also had a knack of only informing Jonah of her plans, meaning Lucy had to constantly enquire as to why she wasn’t home for supper or was home late from work. It made her feel like an outsider, on the periphery of the circle and therefore not worthy of sharing information with. It made her feel temporary, and that unnerved her.

‘I wish Camille would tell me what she’s up to.’ She tried subtly to raise the issue with Jonah while unpacking groceries into the fridge and cupboard.

‘She’s a teenager, love. That’s what they do. Her head is in the clouds.’ He laughed at this stereotypical behaviour, refusing to entertain the idea that it was in any way calculated. Lucy was aware that to suggest anything to the contrary would make her seem oversensitive and possibly lead to a row, something she was keen to avoid. She chose instead not to mention the fact that he hadn’t once properly questioned what it might be like for her to have Camille as a permanent fixture in their home, and this seemed to go hand in hand with his lack of urgency when it came to having a baby of their own.

‘I know, but sometimes . . .’ She hesitated.

‘Sometimes what?’ he pushed.

Lucy paused with an avocado in each hand. ‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel quite so excluded.’

Jonah chortled. ‘Don’t be silly! When are you ever excluded?’ He narrowed his eyes.

She opened the fridge and spoke from behind the open door. ‘When you two talk about trips and events before I arrived, funny things that have happened, stuff like that.’ She hated how juvenile she sounded.

‘We shouldn’t have to censor our conversation, especially when our shared memories are so few and far between.’ His voice was clipped.

‘And I’m not asking you to, of course not! I’m not that person, Jonah, but I would like to be involved. It’s not like I am ever asked my opinion, or she ever shares with me. It’s as if she directs everything at you so that I feel excluded.’

‘That’s not the case, Lucy. I think you might need to lighten up a bit.’ He stared at her. ‘Camille did mention to me she thought you might prefer it if she didn’t stay with us if she gets into college. It was something you said.’

Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I said something a while ago, inadvertently, about it being just the two of us. I can’t even remember the details, but it was nothing, and certainly no reason for her to be punishing me or trying to escalate a harmless phrase into anything more. I remember she stormed off and has been ratty with me ever since.’ She tutted.

‘Harmless to you perhaps.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Jonah!’

And just like that, the kindling was lit for the row she had been trying desperately to avoid. Lucy slammed the fridge door and swept from the room to hide in the bath, trying to vent some of her simmering anger through the medium of foot stomping, which she did all the way up the stairs.

* * *

Tansy had listened over lunch, and now she looked directly at Lucy, stirring her coffee repeatedly.

‘Could he be right? Do you need to lighten up? Are you oversensitive?’ She twisted her mouth, letting Lucy know that it was a tough subject to broach. Lucy was glad of Tansy’s impartiality, despite their friendship.

‘I don’t think so.’ She shrugged and broke the lemon and poppyseed muffin into three, slowly placing an overlarge chunk into her mouth.

‘Teenagers are notoriously difficult, finding their feet and all that.’

‘I know this, Tansy,’ she fired, popping stray crumbs back into her mouth with her finger. ‘And that’s Jonah’s excuse, and I don’t mind normal teenage behaviour – I expected it, in fact – but this feels like something more to me.’

‘Yes, but the fact that you have been plonked in this situation without any build-up means that you might be taking it a little too personally. Possibly overanalysing things.’ Tansy sipped her coffee, grimaced, placed it back in its saucer and reached for another tiny packet of sweetener.

‘What do you mean? I had plenty of build-up. We knew she was coming and Jonah told me all about her. I welcomed her with open arms. Literally! Or I tried to, I should say,’ she explained, remembering how she had stood in the kitchen with her hug rebuffed.

‘That’s not what I mean exactly.’ Tansy sipped again from the cup before explaining further. ‘When you have kids you watch them grow, love them, guide them and have days when you could happily abandon them, but every day is your training ground and every month, every year merges into the next, and it happens fast.’ Tansy paused, stirring her coffee, while Lucy’s thoughts raged.

I am running out of time! I am running out of time!

‘Here’s the thing, Lucy. You need to think of it like a new job. The first day is terrifying: you don’t even know where the bathroom is let alone the name of the IT guy or how to actually do what you are being paid for, but you pick it up bit by bit until all the things that used to bother you become second nature, you relax into it and everything you learn prepares you for the next stage. Arriving at teenagehood is just another phase for a mum who’s been there since the starter pistol was fired, and not only do you have this arsenal of weapons and experience to call upon, but you know your subject inside out. I only know how to handle Michael because I know what makes him tick and how to motivate him, but it’s not easy. You, my friend, have gone straight into seventeen years of service, expectations of you are high, but you are really on your first day, you don’t know where the bathroom is or the name of the IT guy.’

Lucy got it. This she already knew; she was a late starter in the race. She looked down.

‘But I’ve tried really hard with her. I spent an age getting her room ready, I welcomed Dex into the house—’

‘Yes, and that’s good, but trust me, that’s the easy stuff,’ Tansy interrupted her.

‘It is?’ Lucy swallowed her mouthful of muffin and picked up another large piece. ‘It doesn’t feel like the easy stuff,’ she mumbled.

‘Yes, of course it is! If painting a room and making lover boy cups of tea were all it took then all parents all over the world would find the whole thing plain sailing, and yet they don’t. You need to think of teenagers as little turtles. They have hard shells that make it seem like they can rebuff most things, but the truth is they are soft on the inside and completely clueless and that hard exterior is just a clever disguise. And the trick is trying to figure out how to get inside their little shells to see the real them, to know what they really need, without cracking them open.’

Lucy stared at her friend. ‘You are quite good at this parenting thing. Your boys are very lucky.’

‘Not really. This advice is easy to give, but when it comes to your own, most mums are quite neurotic.’

She ran her hand over her forehead. ‘I had no idea it was going to be this hard. I want to sit her down and tell her that I am not trying to take away her dad and that I want to be her friend.’

‘Well then, why don’t you?’ Tansy boomed. ‘You should do exactly that. Follow that instinct.’

‘Urgh. It’s not that easy. I wish it were. It’s like when there’s a boy at school who you are crazy about. You can have a million conversations with him in the mirror or in your head and in those situations it’s a doddle and you rehearse it until you are confident. But then when you are faced with him in the corridor you fall to pieces.’ She placed the muffin in her mouth.

‘Actually, this is not like that at all. You are the grown-up and you have a responsibility for Camille’s welfare. You need to make the move, have the chat, find the confidence, because she might be seventeen and technically one year away from adulthood, but she’s still only a little girl who is probably feeling a bit lost.’

‘She doesn’t seem that way,’ she mumbled through her muffin.

‘Trust me: if she is acting out and deliberately excluding you, it’s because she feels either afraid or threatened or both.’ Tansy nodded assertively.

‘I guess so.’ This certainly made sense. ‘So how do I get Jonah to see it from my perspective and get him to help me, so we present a unified front?’

Tansy laughed loudly and patted the table, before reaching across and stealing the last of the muffin from her friend’s plate and shoving it in her mouth. ‘Oh, honey, teenage girls, not a problem, quadratic equations or brain surgery, easy peasy, but asking me how to get a besotted dad who can only see the good in his baby girl on board? That’s a whole other thing and one that I am definitely not skilled in.’

* * *

Camille lay on the sofa, flicking through the glossy brochure that she had picked up from City of Westminster College.

‘Hey, Cam,’ Lucy offered perkily as she kicked off her shoes and shed her suit jacket before placing it on the arm of the comfy chair by the fireplace. ‘How did it go at the college? Is that your prospectus?’ She sat down on the sofa next to Camille without giving her a chance to budge up.

Camille nodded.

‘Have you decided on a course yet?’

‘This one.’ She pointed at an open page and handed Lucy the brochure. Lucy marvelled at the photographs of a bright, original catwalk fashion show.

‘Would you get to design something like this?’ she asked with genuine amazement. The garments were structured, beautiful and originally quirky, draped on to models whose faces were emblazoned with flag motifs and who sported wild, mermaid-coloured, backcombed hair.

‘Yes.’ Camille’s smile was genuine. ‘That’s the end-of-year show. They sell tickets and everything.’

‘Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe your mum and Jean-Luc could come over?’

Camille retrieved the booklet and placed it on her lap. ‘Maybe.’

‘Have you spoken to her about your plans? I expect she’ll want to talk to your dad.’

‘You’re not the first, you know.’

‘Excuse me?’ Lucy had lost the thread, wondering what she might have misunderstood.

‘You’re not the first girlfriend he’s had living here or introduced me to. There’s been loads.’

Lucy sat back on the sofa, feeling as if the wind had been knocked from her lungs. She was so uncomfortable that she wished she were anywhere else. Was this repayment for making Camille feel unwelcome with a single offhand comment? Surely not. Fighting her instinct to run up the stairs and lock herself in the bathroom for a hot bath and a glass of wine, she instead drew on Tansy’s words of advice.

‘Do you know, Camille, if I didn’t know you better I’d think that you are trying to be hurtful, to say something to upset me. But then I tell myself that I’m being stupid, I must have made a mistake, because you are not that kind of person, and if you were I would be the last person you’d be mean to, as all I have ever done is go out of my way to be your friend, trying to get to know you, introducing you to my family and making Dex welcome in our home.’

She noticed the slight tremor to the girl’s lip and the reddening of her cheek, as if smarting from Lucy’s words of rationalisation.

Camille flicked the edge of the brochure with her agitated fingers and glanced at the door, as if figuring out how to make her getaway.

‘I don’t want to fall out with you, Camille, in fact the exact opposite.’ She softened her tone.

The girl stared at the fireplace. ‘I was only saying my dad’s had loads of girlfriends. And my mum thinks it’s pathetic,’ she spat, sounding a lot younger than her seventeen years and looking for all intents and purposes like a child as her leg jumped and her eyes misted with tears of frustration.

‘Your dad’s a grown man. Of course he’s had girlfriends, just like I have had boyfriends, but the big difference is, I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his wife,’ she emphasised.

‘Oh yeah, of course,’ Camille retorted with a conviction that threw her completely. ‘And I’m sure this time it’s really different,’ she scoffed, as she hopped from the sofa with her brochure under her arm and ran up the stairs.

‘Camille!’ Lucy called after her, to no avail.

* * *

Lucy had barely noticed that the sun had begun to sink, leaving the room bathed in the muted grey of evening. A new range of emotions that felt close to madness confused her; her gut swirled with a sick feeling of inadequacy, and a headache sat behind her eyes. It mattered not that she recognised Camille’s venomous words as those of an angry teen, designed to wound, or that she could take comfort from the thin platinum band on her left hand, a sign of Jonah’s commitment to her. Lucy felt agitated and inadequate. Both feelings were alien to her and all the more unsettling for it.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she whispered aloud. Her eyes settled on the bookshelf, staring at the spines of her husband’s collection of books on the French Revolution. Dark thoughts came tumbling in like a rolling tide in the dead of night.

Camille hates me, I know it. I don’t know how else to try. I thought I’d made headway with her and then this. I’m tired. I want to hide. I can’t keep smiling through. I want time to grieve for what I have lost . . . I feel like everything is an illusion, being Camille’s stepmother, trying to carry a baby . . . what about Jonah? Is he an illusion too? How many others have sat in this room, waiting for him to come home?

The temperature in the room had dropped; Lucy folded her arms across her chest and tried to muster warmth. She looked up at the sound of Jonah’s key in the door. It was a late night for him, having been wined and dined by a glossy London magazine looking for his advertising business.

‘Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought you’d gone out and abandoned me!’ He flicked on the floor lamp and it cast a honey-coloured glow over the wooden floor.

‘No. I’m right here,’ she managed.

‘Have you been crying?’ He studied her face.

‘A bit. Yes.’ She rubbed her stinging eyelids.

‘What’s up, Lucy?’ His tone was a little more jovial than her mood demanded, and it bothered her that he didn’t pick up on this.

She levelled her gaze at him. ‘Lots of things, I guess. I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself and possibly overthinking everything. Camille is . . .’ She let this hang, noting how Jonah pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if he couldn’t stand to hear about another episode.

‘Camille is what?’ He sighed.

Lucy tried to rehearse the words in her head, hoping that they might come out in a way that was casual and not accusatory. ‘How many women have you had living here before me?’ she managed, failing miserably.

Jonah loosened his tie and undid his top button. ‘What?’ He sank down on to the sofa beside her. ‘Where’s this coming from?’ he asked, laughing.

She ground her teeth together, hating that he was laughing when her sadness was very real. ‘Camille said earlier that she’d been introduced to lots of women who had lived here before me and it’s made me feel . . .’ – she decided to dilute exactly how it had made her feel: grubby, insecure and vulnerable – ‘it’s made me feel a bit shaky.’

‘Well that’s absolutely ridiculous!’ he boomed.

‘Possibly,’ she smarted. ‘But it’s playing on my mind a little.’

‘Well don’t let it,’ he reasoned.

Lucy ran her palm over her forehead. If only it were that easy. She felt her anger stir at how he dismissed her concern with his clichéd response.

‘I guess I was feeling a little out of sorts, and I’ve been thinking about your very smooth courtship. It got me wondering how many others have been given the same treatment.’

‘Are you serious? Tell me this is some kind of joke?’ He sat up straight.

Lucy placed her arms across her chest. ‘It’s not a joke. I didn’t think you’d been living like a monk, but I guess it never really occurred to me that there might have been others living here, sleeping in our bed before me, meeting Camille . . .’

‘I’m nearly fifty! What did you think, that I had a high school sweetheart and then sat back waiting for you?’

‘No! I’m not saying that.’ She hated the way his words painted her – the way he was painting her. ‘But Camille said there had been loads and that made me feel uncomfortable.’

Jonah took a deep breath, the kind that might precede any placatory statement. ‘There have been a few women, yes,’ he confessed. ‘Less than ten, more than three, if I had to summarise, but none of them have lived here. Stayed over here, yes, but not lived here. Eaten supper here, yes, but kept a toothbrush here, no. And frankly I resent the suggestion that I have some kind of turnstile on the front door with an endless troop of women coming in and out, to all of which I give a bloody door key. I’m not that person!’ Jonah shouted, which was rare.

‘I’m not saying you are.’ She struggled mentally with how else to make her point.

‘Well, it sure sounds like it. I don’t know what to say to you. I was really looking forward to coming home; I have missed you today and sat through a boring dinner with thoughts of you in my head. This is the last thing I thought I’d be walking into.’

Lucy stared at him, feeling irritated and confused that she had made him feel this way. This was not how she had seen their conversation working out. His words had done little to reassure her and she needed more from him.

He spoke slowly. ‘You have been through a lot, my Lucy, and everything is still a little raw.’

‘That’s true, but I’m tired, Jonah. I’m tired of the way Camille snipes at me, says things that leave me reeling. It’s not fair. I can’t get through to her. I don’t know what her issues are, but I can’t take them on.’

‘No, it probably isn’t fair.’ Jonah stared at her. ‘But the way you are behaving, it sounds to me like you might be jealous.’

She twisted towards him. ‘Why are people saying that to me? Why are you saying that to me?’ She yelled now. ‘I am not the jealous type.’

‘Are you sure? Because it sounds a bit like—’

She cut in: ‘I am not jealous, Jonah. I am pissed off! Mightily pissed off!’

‘I can see that, but it’s ridiculous! Good God, your ex has married your cousin. It’s only a matter of time before we have some fantastic family reunion and I get to shake hands with him and look him in the eye. You can only imagine how much I am looking forward to that day,’ he confided. ‘But does it threaten me? Of course not! Because you are my wife! And I love you.’

She drew breath, trying to ascertain just how far to escalate this row and to figure out whether she had the strength for it right now. ‘I just don’t like to be uninformed. It was the way she said it, “you’re not the first”. It made me feel like an idiot, as if I was temporary.’ There, she had said it, and as she did so the tears of anguish and frustration clogged the back of her nose and stung her eyes.

As Jonah reached out a hand to pull her towards him, the sitting room door opened and Camille walked in, looking cute in her pyjamas and new dressing gown. She had freshly washed hair still damp on her shoulders, a glowing complexion and was smiling quite serenely.

Go away! Please just go away! Lucy urged the girl with her thoughts.

‘Oh, sorry, are you two fighting?’ she asked, looking from one to the other. Lucy was acutely aware that she would have heard everything; these old houses were not built for acoustic privacy.

‘How was your day?’ Jonah ignored the question and for this Lucy was grateful.

‘Great!’ She beamed. ‘I think I’ve chosen my course and it’s so cool.’

‘Wow! Things are really moving forward,’ he stated.

‘Anyway, sorry to interrupt you two, but, Dad, is it okay if I call Mum from your phone? My battery is low and I can’t find my charger,’ Camille said calmly. But for Lucy, even hearing the words ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ in the same sentence made her feel like a stranger in her own home, a stranger whom no one called Mum.

Maybe Tansy and Jonah are right. Are you being oversensitive, Lucy?

‘Sure. Help yourself. It’s on the hallstand.’

Camille nodded as she bounced from the room.

Strangely, the girl’s intervention had slowed the pace, broken the cycle of their row. The two now sat side by side. Lucy re-evaluated her words and tried to think of a way to change the course of their conversation and bring it back to harmony. She was too tired for anything else. She would again bury her sharpened words and hope that time might blunt them.

Jonah beat her to it. Taking a deep breath, he took her hand into his.

‘The thing is, if I could have met you in school, if you could have been my childhood sweetheart, then I would never have loved another. Not only would I have let you braid my hair, but I would have found what I was looking for and I would have been content. But that didn’t happen, and I had to kiss a few frogs before I found my princess.’

‘I think it’s supposed to be kiss a few frogs until you find a prince.’ She laughed.

‘No, I definitely didn’t want to find my prince. I wanted to find my Lucy.’ Leaning forward, he kissed her nose.

She looked up at him, his words thawing the ice-laden dread that had filled her up.

‘I meant every word I said to you on our wedding day; you are like a glorious second chance that I didn’t think I had any right to, and I treasure you every day.’ He bowed his head. ‘And if you think that after waiting all this time to find you I am going to let anyone or anything put even the smallest dent in our happiness, then you are wrong. I love you, my wife.’

Lucy’s eyes teared. She felt infinitely better and tried to ignore the quake of fear she felt when she thought about Camille staying with them permanently.

Jonah whispered in her ear: ‘Now, how about we have an early night and you let me hold you tight?’

‘Sounds good,’ she returned the whisper, kissing the close beard on his handsome face.

The evening had stirred something in her gut that left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. As he placed his arms around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were not resolved. Not yet.

* * *

High school sweetheart. Jonah used this phrase and, as ever, it set my pulse racing. I sometimes think about that first flash of love and lust that can shape you in ways in which you can never imagine. I have friends who, even as their years advance, have confessed that to escape from the chaos of family life they stop, elbow-deep in suds at the sink or with a mountain of paperwork awaiting them, and stare out of a window into the starry sky above and imagine, just for a second, what a life with that boy might have ended up like. They remember the glorious bubble of happiness that filled them morning, noon and night. The way he smelled, the things he said, the first time he touched their skin and the fact that they knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that no one else in the whole wide world had ever, ever had a love like that before. They were Romeo and Juliet, or Scarlett and Rhett, and they were confident that this unique love would never falter . . .

For me, it’s a little different. If I think of his face, I feel a stab of rejection so acute that I place my shaking hand on my gut and pull it away with caution to see if I am bleeding. I smell bleach and feel the plastic of the mask placed over my nose and mouth. My tears come in a rush without warning, a deluge that blinds me, so I have no choice but to sit and weep and try to bury that face, that image, until my tears stop and I can stand up and carry on with my day.